


Shattered

by protectoroffaeries



Series: Looking Glass [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: “I can feel the hurt. There's something good about it. Mostly it makes me stop remembering.” -Albert Borris





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story deals with the themes of self-harm (which is described in detail in the text) and drug addiction (which is only referenced). Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> I have never posted anything quite so serious before, nor have I written anything for Criminal Minds. Feel free to leave comments containing constructive criticism. 
> 
> This takes place in Season 6, shortly after Prentiss' "death" and is the first in a multi-part series.

_ The light is too bright. _

Through the skull-splitting pain of his current migraine, Dr. Spencer Reid can't help but think how that could be interpreted as a twisted metaphor for his life. It wasn't intended to be; the dim, flickering light of his bathroom was doing his head no favors. But… maybe the  _ light _ , in a good and evil sense, was always too much for Reid to handle. 

If he keeps up of this line of thinking, he'll have that Philosophy degree in no time. This itself is perhaps an amusing thought; he always earns his degrees in very little time compared to the common college student. 

But Reid is not a common anything, and he never has been. He's different. Special.  _ Extraordinary _ . And it is absolutely exhausting. 

Clarification: being intelligent is not exhausting. If there is one thing Reid loves, it's knowledge. Applying that intelligence to his job everyday? Applying it to his (virtually nonexistent) social life? That is the exhausting part. Reid is tired. 

And his head  _ really _ hurts. Reid wonders if there's something, anything that can stop what feels like the throbbing of his brain. His thoughts - which are only splintered fragments of what they would normally be - drift to Dilaudid. A relapse can ruin his career, not to mention his life, but he remembers the way he felt when he was high, and those feelings of liberation and painlessness have an intoxicating pull right now.

Reid has been avoiding the possibility that he is losing his mind, but he knows it could be happening. He's genetically predisposed for it to happen, and that, coupled with his childhood issues of abandonment and bullying, and his current mentally and emotionally taxing job, it doesn't look promising for him. With Prentiss’ death - and he barely think about it without shutting down - he's wondered if the job is worth it… but what if it's more than the job that isn't worth it? 

Reid has thoughts like these periodically; Gideon helped him through them last time they plagued him. But Gideon gave up, too, and Reid was angry about that for a long time - and now he understands. 

Sometimes Reid loathes his ability to understand.

Reid braces his hands against his sink and looks in the mirror. He looks terrible: red-rimmed eyes, swallow skin, hair all tangled and askew. The image blurs as his migraine flares up again, and Reid nearly collapses. He digs his fingers into the cold counter top, and his nails screech against it.

He can't stay in here anymore. Reid leaves the bathroom and goes into his tiny kitchen to get himself some water. Before his Dilaudid incident, he would've taken some Ibuprofen, but when he was recovering, he thought it would be best to remove any temptations. 

Reid takes a drink of icy water, and it helps for a second; the relief goes as quickly as it came. He wants to curl up on the cool tile floor and sob until the pain in his head goes away, until the pain of losing Prentiss goes away. Until he can't remember the names of any villainous entities or the images of dead innocents or the odds that he will ever feel like a whole person again. 

The water glass shattering on the floor snaps Reid from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed he’d dropped it, and alarmingly enough, he isn’t concerned about that oversight. There’s a numbness seeping into him - except for the gash that a piece of glass opened on the top of his foot. Reid leans over and plucks the shard of glass from his foot. That hurts, but it’s such a physical and controllable pain. So different from the pain in his head… and the pain in his heart (although that pain isn’t technically  _ in  _ his heart, Reid knows that most people attribute it to the heart because of the connection the pain of loss has to do with love).  

Reid draws the bloody shard of  glass across the back of his hand. His skin parts around the point and trail of red appears. That doesn't hurt as much. 

Reid knows this can be detrimental to his health as drug abuse, if he doesn't stop now and call someone. He turns his hand over and drags the jagged edge of shard across his wrist, applying more pressure than before.  _ Agonizing _ . It's preferable to the state he's been in recently. 

Reid obliterates his arm with the piece of glass. He cuts through the flesh just before his elbow and rips across his forearm. He stabs at random,  too, but this isn't very effective. He adds precisely five horizontal slices beneath the initial gash on his wrist before he realizes that he’s screaming. He clamps his mouth shut, and one of his canines punctures his lip. 

Reid drops the piece of glass and stares at the grotesque picture that is now his left arm. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone, and then he hits one of the speed dials - Morgan’s. He considered calling JJ, but he’s burdened her too much since Emily’s death, and besides, Henry needs her. He should’ve probably called 911, but he hasn't nicked a major artery. He calculates that he's lost approximately nine percent of his blood so far, which is about how much the average person donates when they contribute to a blood drive, anyway.

_ “Reid?”  _ Morgan’s voice crackles over the phone.  _ “Reid, are you there?” _

“M-Morgan,”  Reid says. 

_ “Hey, you alright, kid?”  _

“My arm…” Reid has never been at such a loss for words before, but he truly has no idea how to explain this.

There's a rustling on the other end of the line, which tells Reid that Morgan has already decided to come over and check on him, even without any more details. He probably suspects that Reid has relapsed. 

_ “What's happened to your arm?” _

“I… I did.”

_ “You happened to your arm?” _

“Morgan… Derek, it’s bad.” That was a gross understatement. 

_ “It’s okay, kid. Just keep talking to me. What did you do to your arm?”  _  A car door slams in the background. Morgan is in his car; he’s coming over. He’s going to see this. He’s going to see what a mess Reid has become, how far he’s fallen. He’s going to see the blood. 

“I dropped a glass,” Reid says, which isn’t the answer to the question Morgan asked, merely the first action in a downward spiral. 

_ “On your arm?” _

“On my kitchen floor. On my foot.”

_ “Are you standing on broken glass, Spencer?” _

Morgan’s using his first name now. The inflection of his voice is steady and calm, but to Reid, it sounds like he’s talking to an UNSUB. He sounds… too calm. Like he’s trying not to let Reid know how concerned he actually is. 

“Yes.”

_ “Okay. I’m almost there, Spencer. Is your door unlocked?” _

“No.”

_ “Don’t move to unlock it; you’ll get more glass in your feet.” _

Reid doesn’t want Morgan to kick his door down, but he feels rooted in place. And a bit light-headed. He’s still bleeding. He leans against his refrigerator, smearing blood all over its steely silver surface. “Morgan….”

_ “I’m almost there, Spencer. Hang on.” _

“I’ve lost approximately thirteen percent of my total blood supply,” he blurts. “I feel light-headed, but my life isn’t in danger yet. Really, I’ve lost a little more than they’d take in a blood drive. I think the light-headedness has more to do with the headache I was experiencing before all of this started.” He recites the facts he was thinking of earlier, and he rambles, and it feels good because that’s something he does. But Morgan doesn’t interrupt him or tell him to stop, and that destroys an illusions Reid has of this being a normal situation.

There’s a banging on Reid’s front door, accompanied by the sound of Morgan’s voice through the door and over the phone.  _ “Spencer, I’m coming in _ .”

Morgan has kicked in his fair share of doors, so he’s inside after just a few seconds. He still has his cell phone to his ear when he comes into the kitchen and stops short. Reid sees the pain that contorted his features in the bathroom mirror reflected onto Morgan’s face. “Spencer…”

“It looks worse than it is,” Reid offers, but they both know that’s a lie. There’s blood coating him, the floor, and the refrigerator. There’s broken glass. There’s Reid’s undoubtedly haughty appearance. 

“Did you call an ambulance?”

Reid shakes his head. 

Morgan walks across the kitchen, the stray glass crunching under his boots. He puts his arms around Reid and gently lifts him. He doesn’t break his stride toward the door to snatch one of Reid’s jackets off its hook. “Can you stop the bleeding?”

“Yes.” Reid presses the jacket to his ruined arm, and prickles of pain shoot through his nervous system again. They aren’t fighting back the throbbing in his head or his feelings about Prentiss the way they did before. It was a trick of his own mind - and what a ghastly trick it was. Reid’s heart quickens fearfully. He’s going to lose himself. He’s already lost himself. 

“Spencer.” Morgan’s voice snaps him back to reality. They’re outside now, next to Morgan’s car.   Morgan opens the passenger’s side with one hand and sets Reid on the seat. Reid just keeps the jacket on his arm. 

Morgan shuts the door behind him and goes around the the driver’s side. He gets in and starts driving to the nearest hospital, which is Mary Washington, if Reid remembers correctly. And, of course, he does. “Reid, why?” The agent's tone is gone, and now Morgan isn't treating him like some mentally fragile UNSUB. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Reid says, and it’s true, but he’s aware of how petulant he sounds when he says it. 

“Well, you could’ve.” When Reid doesn’t respond, Morgan continues, “I know it’s been rough since we lost Prentiss, but this isn’t the way to cope with it.”

“It hurt less than…” Reid can’t say it. He’s fallen so hard this time. 

“Reid, I know it hurts. I know. It hurts me, too. Every morning I wake up and think of all the things I could’ve done differently to save her. But… I also think about what she would want us to do. What she would say if she were here.”

Reid says nothing. 

“She would hate to see you hurt, Reid.”

“She’ll never have to.”

Now it’s Morgan who has nothing to say. Reid stares out into the darkness of the night for the rest of the ride to the hospital and wonders if the answers to his problems lie simply in grief. 


End file.
